


I've Been Down And I'm Wondering Why

by electroniccannibalism



Series: Of Wings And City Skies [1]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, FOB, Other, Wingfic, Wings, Wings AU, fall out boy - Freeform, record store, well its more of a friendship thing than an actual shipping thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-29 00:16:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6351253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electroniccannibalism/pseuds/electroniccannibalism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete Wentz has a job in a record store.<br/>Granted, its a pretty shitty record store, the kind you drive past and feel sorry for since no one is ever in it, due to the bad decorating and the awkward location on that main street.<br/>He's been observing a boy who has been coming in regularly for about a month now, always just examining CDs and leaving, but never buying anything.<br/>Pete just wants to speak to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I've Been Down And I'm Wondering Why

The afternoon light filters through the glass panes of the front of the shop, casting shadows of the frame of the window down on the linoleum floor, and I barely register the door opening. A kid around my age walks in, and I immediately recognise him. He’s here about twice a week; I assume he works in the local bookstore just down the road, judging from his uniform: tailored trousers and a short sleeved collared shirt with the name of the bookstore printed on it. He crosses the room and looks over to the untouched vinyl that is crammed into a small section, but decides to make his way over to the CDs, which take up most of the space of the already compact store. I see him tentatively scanning over the ‘A’ section; quickly flicking through the CDs of bands he has probably never heard of. I don't know why we stock so much obscure indie music, its not like anyone buys it anyway.  
I stretch at the counter, yawning although it is only the early afternoon. This kid is always mingling around the same sections, inspecting the same CDs over and over, but always seems hesitant to buy them.  
I never understood why he does this.  
The boy is somewhere near the ‘G’ section now checking out a familiar CD, flipping it over to check out the track listing on the back, which he surely knows already, but nonetheless his grey-blue eyes still dart in excitement over the song titles. He has a small smile on his face; I’m assuming he’s a fan of the band, judging by the badge buttons on his bag.  
I want to tell him I like them too. I want to talk to him about their music.  
I open my mouth to say something, and suddenly I feel a brushing of feathers on my back.  
My voice sticks in my throat.  
My face burns as I withdraw from the situation.  
He checks his watch and puts down the CD hurriedly and practically runs out of the store, pushing the door open and letting it slam loudly behind him.  
I wince at the sound.

I quickly scribble a notice about a quick break to stick to the window and slip through the back exit of the store into a small alley, which smells like cigarettes and alcohol with an undertone of stale urine. Even the air feels damp and heavy. I look down at my scuffed shoes; moss and weeds have been thriving in the cracks of the wet pavement. I slump down on a milk crate that is leaning against a wall.  
It’s not the ideal place to hang around, but since I shouldn’t even be on a break, it’s the only place I could slip away.  
I peel off my hoodie, slipping my wings through the tears in the back of the t-shirt underneath. I flex them out, trying to get feeling in them after being hidden under a hoodie for so long.  
I fumble for a cigarette, fishing one from the back pocket of my jeans and striking a match to light it. I take a drag.  
I stare up at my wings, the raven plumes ruffling slightly in the little wind that blows through here.  
I almost want to rip them out; they’re certainly more trouble that what they are worth, but I know it’s painful.  
I’ve had it happen to me first-hand.  
My mind wanders to a time when I was but a short and lanky kid with scraped up knees from falling off their bicycle too much. Didn’t help the fact that this kid had wings and also couldn't fly away from anytime someone picked on them.  
I suck on the cigarette, deeply inhaling the nicotine.  
I was simply making my way to the local cinema when a few guys from my class had grabbed me and took me to me an alley much like this one. I was scared and shocked, probably crying as they dragged me by the collar of my shirt.  
I exhale, letting the smoke drift into the clouded sky above me.  
They pulled out fistfuls of the feathers, laughing and jeering as they snapped wing bones. I was screaming and kicking out at them, but I couldn't do a thing.  
Inhale.  
They left me there for over an hour until someone found me and took me to hospital. It took months for my wings to heal, and I’d refused to have them out on display ever since.  
Exhale  
I often wonder if it’s the reason I’m so nervous now.  
It’s almost funny, this whole situation: a pathetic kid illegally smoking in a dodgy alley that stinks of piss during work that's too scared to talk to a regular customer even though they have similar interests, because of something that happened years ago.  
I laugh as I exhale, my fingers loosely holding the burnt out cigarette

The song changed just as the door of the store flew open. The sudden movement shook the insomnia-induced haze I had fallen into as I squinted at the harsh light of the early morning. A flash of ginger hair reflects in the sunlight and I sigh loudly.  
It’s the same kid from three days ago, standing around awkwardly in his bookstore uniform with a Green Day hoodie thrown over the top.  
It’s the same band that he always checks out the CDs for, also the band that wrote the song that's currently playing.  
I can hear him singing along softly to the song playing from across the store.  
My voice fails me again and gets stuck.  
I don't understand why I get like this.  
I close my eyes and take in deep ragged breaths.  
He’s inspecting the old music posters that are haphazardly stuck all over the walls, the light blue walls are barely visible underneath the album advertisements and tour promotions from years ago.  
“So are you a fan of them?”  
My voice is laced with fear.  
He jolts out of his absent thought and scans the store, trying to discover a source of the voice.  
His gaze falls on me and we make eye contact.  
“Of Green Day?” He asks curiously. I swallow, I’m pretty sure I’m visibly shaking.  
“Yeah.” I replied. It felt strange to be talking to someone like this.  
He nods speculatively and dithers for a moment and casts his gaze to the floor, fumbling with the CD case in his hand before cautiously walking towards me.  
“I’ll take this,” he says, placing some money on the counter. I scan the album and take the cash before handing the album over.  
“Is Dookie your favourite album?” I ask, gesturing towards the CD. He nods again. Every movement of his feels tentative.  
“Me too, it has some great songs on it.” I reply awkwardly. I stretch out my hand.  
"I'm Pete. Pete Wentz." I add  
He grins at me, clutching the CD in his hand.  
"Hey Pete, I'm Patrick. Patrick Stump." He says, a wide smile on his face. He then begins to slowly walk towards the exit of the store, looking down at the CD in his hand.  
Just before he leaves, he looks up at me again.  
"I guess I'll be seeing you again soon, as you can probably tell, I'm in here a lot." He adds, that infectious smile still on his face.  
He then exits the store, letting the door close quietly behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from the song 'Maybe Tomorrow' by Stereophonics  
> was originally written for an english project, but i adapted it a bit to make into a fic


End file.
